Title Page

Dedication

For my gorgeous granddaughter
Lyra Joanna
Second of the Ashtons
Conceived, gestated and delivered
Along the same timeline as
First of the Tudors

Family Tree

Maps

PART ONE

Brothers to the King

1451–1453

1

Jasper

Westminster Palace & London

FLASHES OF IRIDESCENCE GLEAMED like fireflies in the gloom of the small tower chamber. I stared at the river of fabric as it settled in graceful waves across the bed. It was the intense blue of a noon sky, yet it glittered with the gold of midnight stars. ‘Do you think she will like it?’ Edmund asked.

I took a deep breath, hesitating to prick my brother’s bubble. ‘Yes – and no,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’ Indignation raised the timbre of his voice. ‘Jesu Jas, a gown fashioned of such fabric would make any female feel like a queen!’

My hackles rose. I hated Edmund calling me Jas and had told him so on numerous occasions, yet still he persisted. It was a boyhood nickname and we were no longer boys but squires in the service of the king, soon to become knights. My name was Jasper. I had stopped calling him Ed on the day we came to court.

‘But she is not a queen and there are sumptuary laws. Our sister could be royally fined for wearing a gown made from such fabric. You know its use is restricted to royalty, archbishops and the effigies of saints.’

I touched the cloth, admiring its shimmer as the slight movement stirred it into life; it was soft and sinuous under my fingers. I imagined the deft fingers that had wound the fine gold wire around the warp fibres with infinite skill and patience. Edmund was right; wearing it would make anyone feel illustrious. Cloth of gold! Just how had Edmund come up with the huge price it commanded?

Edmund drew himself up to his six-foot height. ‘The daughter of a queen may wear what she likes. They would not dare to fine her.’

Exasperated, I flicked the fabric so that it rippled, like a sudden flurry on a calm lake. ‘Your head is in the clouds, brother. Come back to earth. Our sister lives in Tun Lane, London. Nobody knows what we know. In her world she is not Margaret, just Meg, and she is about to marry the man of her choice who is not a prince but a lawyer. She will be a wife and, God willing, a mother. She is happy, with a warm home and enough money for her needs. Whatever you dream for your own future, do not wish it on her.’

Irritably Edmund twitched the length of fabric into his arms, gathering it in like a shield against reality. ‘I know what she is – what she has chosen to remain – but she is still the daughter of a queen, the granddaughter of a king, and I will give her the honour of royal raiment, even if she never wears it.’